In Some Quite Casual Way
by winter156
Summary: Andy unwittingly walks into territory where angels fear to tread
1. Chapter 1

Paring: Miranda/Andy  
Rating: R  
Disclaimer: None of the characters belong to me

A/N: So, I saw **la_fono**'s request for wingfic and I was intrigued. The following is a result of my flight of fancy (terrible pun, I know). It got a bit lengthier than I originally intended, but I hope it's enjoyable nonetheless.

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**In Some Quite Casual Way**

_Not exactly the way I'd thought I'd end up going,_ the thought made Andy laugh with a bit of macabre humor. She figured she really could only laugh or cry about the situation; so, she decided she would not dwell on obvious things she could not change. The whole thing had been an accident. She knew that logically, but she could not help but feel momentarily personally affronted with everyone and everything. She was, after all, the one plummeting fifty stories to her doom. Andy opened her eyes and turned her head slightly to see over her shoulder. She quickly turned back and tried not to think about the rapidly decreasing distance between her body and the ground.

It had been a normal morning for the young journalist; she had been rushing to meet a source for a story that was going to put her on the map. _Just a normal day Sachs_, Andy thought rolling her eyes at herself and everything, _except for the fact that the whole universe seemed to be against me_.

She had overslept because she had somehow missed her alarm. Half her subway route was closed due to construction, so she had ran ten blocks to the building because all the cabs in New York seemed to be occupied. Sweaty and disheveled, she had gotten into the slowest elevator on the face of the earth; it stopped on every floor and she had sixty floors to rise. Frustrated and figuring she could climb the stairs the last few floors, she exited on floor forty-nine. The stairway was naturally clogged full of people bustling up and down to their destinations. Already fifteen minutes late, Andy prayed her source was still waiting her arrival.

Trudging up the stairs as quickly as she could, moving around people who were moving too slowly, Andy groaned as she reached what looked to be an area of renovation where traffic seemed to have come to a crawl. Moving as close to the edge as she could and by necessity closer to what was undoubtedly a dangerous area, Andy rushed past several people. Dodging a slow moving man, she missed the woman rushing down in a similar state as herself. They collided. Andy lost her balance. And suddenly, time slowed to extend every heartbeat to an eternity. Somehow detached from the moment, even as she felt herself struggle to right her balance even though she was already falling toward the one window without a railing in front of it, she watched horror overtake the unknown woman's face even as she tried to reach out and grab the journalist. Their fingertips brushed, but Andy was already too far away. Her heart stopped as she heard the window behind her crack and shatter. Andy could feel the sharp edges of the glass tear through the skin exposed on her arms, neck and face as she fell through the shattered window. Gravity immediately pulled her down. Time warped again, moving grindingly slow and blindingly fast simultaneously.

The first few seconds of the fall Andy's life flashed before her eyes in rapid succession. Her childhood in resplendent color: running into her father's outstretched arms, falling asleep to her mother reading her bedtime stories, getting into mischief with her brother, breaking her arm trying to do a dare she was too stubborn to back down from, climbing the tallest tree in her yard and proclaiming herself invincible. Her adolescence in muted tones: starting her period, feeling attraction for the first time, kissing a boy for the first time, standing up for her morals, discovering a deep love for the written word, rebelling against her parents. Her bloom to womanhood in pastels: finding a balance with her parents, stepping out on her own two feet, figuring out that her parents grew smarter as she grew older, falling in love, having sex, being heartbroken, doing the seemingly impossible, chasing after her dreams. The whole of her memory up to the last year played in an instant.

When her mind played the last year it slowed and savored all the moments presented in bright and muted hues of blue, ranging from the light blueness of the midday sky to the inky blueness of the night sky: feeling slighted and inadequate, steeling her courage to face a dragon, fighting the urge to quit, facing the impossible task of changing her outward appearance without allowing her inner self to waver, reevaluating some of her outlooks, trying not to disappoint an impossible woman, forging an uncommon bond, searching words for emotions she had never felt before, finding a woman attractive, questioning her sexuality. Her mind was apparently stuck on Miranda Priestly. Andy clearly recalled the silvery white perfectness of her hair, the deep blue eyes that pierced everything, the smooth alabaster skin that belied the woman's age, the confident and graceful gait, the impossible-to-please attitude, the enigmatic personality, the sharp tongue that could cut through steel, the whole package. Just imagining the editor caused a flush of heat to move through Andy. The familiar ache in the middle of her chest quickly followed.

Realizing she was seconds from dying, Andy regretted never going back to _Runway_ to apologize for how she had left Miranda in Paris. She knew she had been childish and immature in the way she had departed. Andy squeezed her eyes shut at the sudden onset of tears. She had taken the coward's way out in that situation and it still grated her that she had not made it right.

At the time, running had seemed like her only solution. She was attracted to Miranda like an asteroid was pulled by the gravity of a nearby star. And, she knew that without changing her course she would inevitably be drawn in and utterly consumed. It would be impossible to fight once she was directly in Miranda's orbit. Andy had felt the tempting pull of everything Miranda offered her in the back of that car in Paris. It would have been so easy to lose herself to the life the editor placed before her on a silver platter. It would have been a seamless transition for her to become Miranda.

Andy knew she could take all that was offered. She knew she was capable of taking charge. She knew she could make a name for herself, differentiate herself from all predecessors. More importantly, Andy knew Miranda was including herself in the deal. She had felt the connection, the pull of more than a working relationship. Miranda would never say it, but she had offered everything to her. And Andy had wanted so very badly to take, ravage and revel in _everything_ she was offered.

But, despite being everything she wanted, the price was too high. She could not live with Miranda wanting her as something money and power had made; she wanted Miranda to desire the person she was, and not the person the editor had made. So, Andy had run. She ran as fast, and as far, as she could. She ran before she faltered in her choice and accepted the tempting offer of the Devil herself.

And here she was falling to her death regretting the one decision she knew saved her character but damned her heart. The tears she could not hold back anymore were pulled up by the force of the wind; they left a trail of wetness as she fell before evaporating above her. Her brown eyes watched fascinated before something bright and moving at incredible speed caught the corner of her eye. The journalist gaped. Her thoughts had materialized into the physical realm; she was hallucinating that the woman possessing her thoughts was present with her.

_I've died and gone to Heaven_, Andy thought as the vision before her burned itself in her brain. Miranda Priestly, with her perfect hair, perfect face, perfect clothes, perfect everything, was hovering above her with massive wings protruding from her thin shoulders. Clear blue eyes looked directly at her and Andy could not help the trip of her heart at the even imagined presence of the other woman.

_Or maybe I've gone to Hell_, she thought absently as she stretched a hand to touch the vision before her. She was shocked to feel the solid, warm touch of Miranda's hand entwining with her own. Before she knew what was happening, Miranda swooped in close to her and put an arm under the back of her knees and around her midsection.

"Wrap your arms around my neck," Miranda's soft voice cut through the wind whipping around her ears. Andy tentatively obeyed the command and suddenly found herself pressed against soft curves and her decent halted. A powerful thrust of Miranda's wings had them propelling upward. Andy clung to the editor as they cut through the air. The rhythmic beating of the wings lulled the reporter; she felt an explicable sense of safety.

Andy buried her face in Miranda's neck, her eyes looking through white strands to view the receding vista of the New York City sky line. The whole situation suddenly felt like a dream. _If this is just a dream, I'm going to take full advantage_, Andy thought as she pressed her lips softly, gently to the juncture of where Miranda's neck met her shoulder.

The editor exhaled sharply at the sensation of those lips pressed to her and the emotion she could feel swirling around behind the touch. She shuddered in reaction, sparks racing down her spine from the point of contact. She momentarily stopped. The wind swirling beneath Miranda's widespread wings suspending them between heaven and earth.

The editor wanted to return the touch but there were things she needed to take care of first. Flattening and narrowing the angle of her wings, Miranda began their decent. The now constant press of lips was driving her to distraction. Needing to land them quickly or lose her rational mind, the editor pressed her lips to Andy's ear, "Hold tight."

Andy's mind went momentarily blank at the feel of Miranda's lips pressed to the shell of her ear; she missed the explicit warning in the words. A surprised gasp was torn from her throat a moment later as the editor plunged them into a headfirst free fall.

Wings folded and curled tightly against her back, Miranda smirked at the young woman's sudden death grip around her. The tight press of the brunette's curves against her did not do much for her state of mind, but she could not find it within herself to care. Andy felt good against her. After Paris, she had no illusions as to where she stood with the young journalist. The brunette had made it abundantly clear. Andy's decision in Paris had equally depressed and elated the editor. Holding her now, Miranda knew they had much to discuss.

Seeing the ground much closer than it had been a moment before, Andy squeezed her eyes shut and hid her face in Miranda's neck. She breathed in the unique scent of the impossible woman, _At least I get to die in the arms of the woman I love. _The thought stunned Andy. It shocked her so much she pulled back enough to look into the deep blue of Miranda's eyes. The editor stared back into brown eyes, surprise widening her eyes. Andy felt exposed and vulnerable, almost as if Miranda could read her thoughts or feel her emotions. The fact that she now had a name for the insidious emotion that her heart stubbornly clung to for the incredible, impossible woman escaped her; she was much too shocked by the revelation to do more than stare into slate blue eyes.

Miranda's heart tripped over itself at the clear and blatant fire that suddenly enveloped her bodily. She felt like she was physically aflame, the emotion coming off Andy was so strong. Looking into scared brown eyes staring at her, the editor could do little but stare back. She had known there was some deep connection between them, but after Paris she never expected this. Lost in the moment, Miranda's wings snapped open to their full length almost automatically. They came to an abrupt halt two feet from the ground.

The jarring stop snapped both women out of their shock. Miranda slowly dropped them the last two feet. When her Prada heeled feet touched the ground she was already moving in the direction of the backdoor of her home. Andy made an attempt to uncurl herself from around the editor, but Miranda held her firmly and carried her all the way inside. The journalist did not fight. She allowed herself to be carried all the way into Miranda's office, where the editor gently deposited her on a soft leather couch.

Andy stared at the editor while she searched for something in her desk. She licked her lips at the sight of Miranda bent over, face set in concentration, blouse slightly open revealing an enticing view of skin. The journalist moved her right hand to her left bicep and pinched. She winced in pain.

Miranda straightened and looked at her curiously, "What are you doing?"

"Making sure I'm not dreaming," Andy's eyes devoured the editor as she approached. Miranda was wearing a charcoal pencil skirt and a perfectly fitted blue blouse by a designer Andy did not recognize. She looked understated but powerful. The wings added to the affect; even folded behind her they looked massive. The brunette wondered how she was not imbalanced.

"I assure you that you are not dreaming," Miranda said as if she was not sporting a set of massive wings. She laid what looked like a first aid kit beside the journalist before picking up the phone she had laid on top of it and making a call. "Clear my schedule for the rest of the day," the editor spoke into the phone, "That's all." She carelessly tossed the cell onto the couch before kneeling in front of the seated woman and pulling the first aid kit into her lap.

Andy watched in quiet awe as Miranda gently cleaned the cuts the glass from the window had made on her skin. "Can't you just heal them?" Andy wondered out loud curiosity lacing her voice, her mind racing to recall everything she had ever heard or read about angels.

Miranda looked up at that. Blue eyes captured brown, "Would you like me to?" Andy nodded dumbly. The editor put the items she held aside. Her hands slid up Andy's arms leaving a warm, tingling sensation in their wake. When Andy looked down she was shocked to see perfectly unblemished skin where Miranda's hands had touched. The editor then moved forward, her fingertips tracing lines on Andy's face and neck. The brunette swallowed and shuddered at the almost intimate touch, she had forgotten the broken glass had scratched her neck and face. Miranda's eyes seemed to glow while she touched her. The editor unconsciously leant closer the longer she touched the journalist. She inadvertently put herself in a position Andy found extremely tempting.

Miranda's proximity intoxicated the brunette and piqued her curiosity. She could not help herself as she reached out and traced the silvery white wing protruding from Miranda's right shoulder. It was soft and warm. The editor visibly shuddered at the touch, her fingers stopping on Andy's face. "Are you an angel?" the brunette asked her fingers skimming lightly over the wing before her.

"In a manner of speaking," Miranda expelled breathlessly. She still felt as if on fire, especially where Andy's fingers touched her wing. She lightly grasped the brunette's hand, stilling it. "They are extremely sensitive," she confessed.

Andy stared at her in awe. "How did you hide them for so long?"

"Like this," Miranda said as her wings literally disappeared into thin air.

The journalist gasped in surprise. "Neat trick," her free hand moved through the space the wings had occupied a moment before, "How did you do that?"

"Magic," Miranda said with a straight face though Andy caught an amused undertone in her voice.

"Magic?" Andy smiled into Miranda's upturned face. It felt surreal to be with Miranda. Not simply because of the editor had miraculously sprouted a set of wings, and was apparently angelic in nature, and that she had swooped in and saved her life. The fact that they were sitting in Miranda's house having lighthearted conversation with the editor tending her and seemingly worried about her was what was truly surreal. It felt good, though. The easy camaraderie, the familiarity, felt natural and genuine.

Blue orbs studied her. Andy had never seen them so open and revealing. Toward the end of her tenure at _Runway_ she had become quite adept at reading Miranda's wants, needs, and body language but she had rarely been able to see beyond the walls the editor erected around herself. Her blue eyes had been mostly unreadable to her. But now, they shone with warmth, affection and something else she could not quite describe.

Miranda's finger lightly traced the brunette's jaw. Andy drew a sharp breath at the sensation of the editor touching her for no other reason than to touch her. Miranda stilled her finger but did not remove her hand, "It's significantly more complex than that, but the word tends to convey a need for suspension of belief that is adequate enough for its use."

It took the journalist a moment to recall what they were discussing. "Simplify it for me," Andy asked taking Miranda's stilled hand and bringing it down to join their already clasped hands in her lap. Had anyone walked in at the moment they would have not believed their eyes at the picture the women made. Andy seated on the couch with Miranda kneeling before her, their hands clasped between them, white head tilted up almost in supplication, brown head leant down in consideration, their eyes locked and seeing only one another, and an unmistakable connection that was invisible but vibrant around them.

"I can hide them by putting them somewhere else," Miranda spoke, but she was more interested in the nonverbal conversation they were having. Something was happening. They were shifting. She was acutely aware of it. She wondered how deeply the journalist felt it.

Andy's eyes sparkled and her lips curled into a smile, "I think I can handle something a bit more complex than that." She lightly squeezed the hands held in hers, even while inside she was amazed that Miranda had not pulled away from her yet.

"Dimensional shift," Miranda said. Looking up into brown orbs, the editor wanted to talk about what she knew they needed to, but she would proceed at Andy's glacial pace though it grated her nerves to be patient.

"Like a parallel universe," Andy easily saw the flash of impatience in Miranda's eyes, but she was genuinely curious now. The journalist in her wanted to know as much as the editor would divulge, and given Miranda's unusual compliance she was going to exploit it before they moved on to heavier matters.

"No," the white head shook in the negative, "there are no other universes where you chose to do something differently and it cascaded into an entirely different life."

"Pity," the journalist could not help but inject. Miranda nodded minutely at that, they both wished they could have made different choices along the way. "So, what do you mean?"

"Superimposed upon this visible world, there exists an invisible realm," Miranda felt disbelief coming off of the brunette, but she continued, "They exist simultaneously. It's the realm of what could be labeled supernatural; a plane where angels, devils, and spirits reside."

"Okay," Andy tried to wrap her mind around what she was hearing, "So, how is that you live in both?"

Miranda surprised her with her next statement, "You live in both as well." At Andy's look, the editor explained, "Your soul isn't part of this world. It is attached to it as long as your body lives, but it exists in a different dimension."

Andy shook her head in wonderment. She could not really argue with an angel sitting at her feet telling her these things. "So the wings?" She veered back to her original question.

"I shift them out of the visible world," the white head cocked to the side trying to decipher the amalgam of emotions coming off the brunette.

"But, you don't just hide them. They completely disappear," Andy looked at the space the wings had been and where her hand had gone right through. She tried to remember everything she had learned in her chemistry and physics classes, "You can't make something from nothing, which means you can't make something into nothing."

"I built an entire empire from nothing," Miranda countered, Andy's curiosity sparking her interest.

"That's metaphorical," Andy dismissed, "I mean you can't create or destroy matter."

"With enough power, you can do anything, Andrea," Andy's heart stopped at hearing her name fall from those lips after so long. Miranda stopped as longing pierced her. She was not sure how she would survive holding onto this young woman without doing something irreversible. Closing her eyes to regain her composure, she took a cleansing breath, "But, I do not have that much power, so I simply transfer matter to a different location." She opened her eyes and reestablished eye contact, "You can think of it as putting something away. Something laying on a kitchen counter, for example, being put in a drawer or cupboard. It is simply put away, not gone."

"That actually makes sense," the journalist said after she considered the editor's words. "Can you bring them back?"

Miranda eyed her curiously before allowing her wings to pop back into view. Andy stared in awe, her hands unconsciously moving from the editor's hands to her wings. Miranda licked her lips at the sensation of warm, soft fingers tracing her delicate feathers. A heady and unexpected rush of arousal shot through her at Andy's continued touch and the obvious care behind the contact. She shuddered. The editor knew her eyes were clouded and her pupils were dilated; she knew that Andy saw that. She swallowed and breathed in roughly through her nose as she watched Andy's brown eyes darken and her pupils dilate. The desire pouring off the young woman hit her directly in her center.

The editor stood abruptly and walked on shaky legs to her desk. She laid her hands on the aged oak as if for support and breathed deeply through her mouth trying to get her heart under control. "Why aren't you intimidated by me? By all this?" Miranda asked, emphasizing the question with a flutter of her wings.

Andy watched the editor in a similar state herself. Her palms were sweaty, her heart was hammering in her ribcage, and her breathing was erratic from the mere suggestion of reciprocated arousal. Andy tried to clear her head. "I don't think there's much you can do to intimidate me anymore," Miranda's back was to her but she knew she had her attention, "I was terrified of you at the beginning, but somewhere along the line I think I got used to you. Like drinking small quantities of poison every day, I was able to drink—and live—in the presence of what has destroyed some men." Andy smirked feeling brave.

The journalist heard something that sounded like _cheeky_ come from the turned head. "You are certainly one brave woman," Miranda voice was ice but Andy could see a smirk on her beautiful profile.

"I doubt my courage was ever in question," Andy rejoined, standing and moving to prop herself on the desk next to the editor. Miranda stiffened at the proximity. The reaction immediately reminded Andy that the editor never touched people, except her daughters. They had done more touching in the last few minutes than they did the entirety of Andy's time at _Runway_. And the reactions she was getting from Miranda were certainly something she never expected; fantasized and hope for, yes, but expected, never. Even after Miranda had made it clear she wanted more from Andy, the physical reactions always seemed a distant thought. The reality of her affect on the woman was narcotic; she felt invincible. "I'm going to be very honest," Andy's tone was playful, "I am a little taken aback that you're an angel."

Miranda arched a brow at her, "I never said I was an angel."

Andy rewound their conversation in her mind, "The alternative does seem much more plausible."

The editor let out an amused huff, "Contrary to popular opinion I am no devil, either." Andy's brown eyes looked at her with mock shock. "At least not literally," Miranda qualified.

"So if not an angel and not a devil," the journalist's tone was veering to serious again, "what are you?"

"Human," came the soft reply, equally serious.

"Human," Andy repeated real shock registered on her face. "Humans don't sprout wings and magically heal people, Miranda."

"I do," the editor said firmly, her tone brooking no argument. She expelled a breath at the sudden stillness of the woman beside her. Turning and slipping out of her heels, Miranda gracefully sat herself down on top of the desk her wings adjusting to new position by laying partially open along the huge desk. Andy considered following Miranda's example, but decided against it. Instead she turned her hip. She wanted to look at the editor's face while she said whatever she had to say.

"This is my punishment," Miranda began so softly Andy had to strain to hear her. Blue eyes looked at the ceiling but seemed to be looking beyond it. "Mortality. Humanity." She looked down at her hands before looking back up at Andy. "I am a fallen, disgraced angel." Andy staunched her desire to question and forced herself to simply listen. "Fifty-two years ago I was tempted by great power and fell prey to its lure. In so doing, I failed in a very specific mission I was performing. The ramifications of my actions were swift and severe. I was stripped of everything; my very identity was wiped. I was punished to walk in the shoes of those whom I had slighted and failed." Her eyes skidded away from the journalist's. "I was born fifty-one years ago to abject poverty with full recollection of what I had been and how far I had fallen." Blue eyes pierced Andy with their intensity, "I slaved away building myself to who I am today. I refused to remain such a lowly creature. If I was to be human, I would be the epitome of human wealth and power."

"Unyielding even in defeat," Andy tried not to take offense at Miranda's obvious disdain for humanity.

"I have never taken defeat well," the editor agreed, "it seems to pull a rebellious streak out of me."

"I had noticed that," Andy replied remembering Paris and doing her best not to judge the older woman and at the very least hear her out. She had saved her life after all.

The editor could feel the shift in Andy's demeanor. It was not Miranda's intention to upset the journalist but she needed to be honest. What she wanted so much from the brunette would require honesty and she was willing to do that. "I haven't gotten to where I am at by being nice," Miranda waved her hand as if dismissing the thought outright.

"It wouldn't have killed you to try it out once in a while," Andy said before she could stop herself. Lowering her eyes in consternation, the brunette shook her head at herself, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"You aren't wrong," Miranda surprised her, "I simply did not know how." The editor wanted to touch the young woman and comfort her, but she knew at the moment the touch would not be welcome. "I could not reconcile who I remembered being and who I actually was. It was a constant battle trying to resolve in my head being a creature above, and better than, the people around me when I was at the bottom of a very human totem pole. It was a battle I lost to my pride and haughtiness when I learned that humans can be as indifferent as angels. Being cold and commanding got things done faster and more efficiently. And in that regard, I have proven I have no equal."

"I thought angels had a natural tendency to be," Andy searched for a proper word, "good."

"They do," the white head nodded, "They are in fact empathetic to human emotion. But they are also single-minded in their focus and relentless in their tasks. They can turn off and block any sensitivity in order to get a job done." Again blue eyes veered away from brown. "I have found humans can do the same by distance and cruelty."

Andy looked Miranda over and felt her upset drain away. It was replaced by pity and sadness to the life the woman must have lived with that outlook. Being neither one creature nor another because of stubbornness, it broke the journalist's heart to think of what Miranda had lived through. It was a wonder the woman was not mad, living with two identities in her head.

"Don't," the command was heated and sharp. Dark blue eyes burning in anger and indignation caused Andy to start. The journalist almost took a step back, but she held her ground and met the stare steadfastly. "I do not need your pity," Miranda spat, her voice low and dangerous.

Andy's eyes widened, "How?" _Empathy_, the word bounced in the brunette's head. And suddenly, anger swept through the journalist; fierce and hot. Eyes burning as strongly as Miranda's, Andy turned to face her completely. She moved determinedly into the editor's personal space, forcing her knees apart as she got in close, placing each hand palms flat on either side of the older woman's thighs. The brunette leaned forward and got directly in the editor's face. Even incensed, neither woman could miss the unmistakable frisson of desire the move caused. "How dare you invade the privacy of my emotions and then berate me for feeling the way I do?"

Miranda flapped her wings creating a gust of wind that blew Andy's hair back but did not cause her to even flinch. Getting right up to the young woman's face, millimeters separating their noses, the editor practically growled, "I cannot turn it off. I usually refrain from touching people so that I don't feel them. But you," Miranda obliterated the distance between them her forehead and nose meeting Andy's, her hands on each side of the journalist's face holding her tightly to her, "you, Andrea, are under my skin, in every pore, in my mind, under my ribcage." The fire in Miranda's eyes changed hues, it was still hot and intense but it burned Andy in a different way. It consumed her and electrified her. It made her nerve endings come alive. "You're in my heart. It pounds your name with every beat. I feel you everywhere, whether I touch you or not." Miranda breathed out roughly onto Andy's mouth, making the brunette's lips tingle, "I feel you regardless of distance and time. I feel you no matter how much work I try to lose myself in. I feel you no matter how much I feel you disappointed me. I feel you no matter how much I tell myself I don't deserve you. I carry your heart in my heart; and it beats with unquenchable, unheeding, uninhibited love for you," Andy gasped, "And I cannot turn it off."

Miranda crushed their lips together. She needed to be closer, to taste, to take, to give, to possess and be possessed of this creature that had captured her soul. Andy reciprocated every move and motion. She allowed the love she felt for the editor to fill her and surround her. She knew Miranda would feel it. The words would come later, but right now she needed to expend the tightly coiled desire throbbing in her. They both needed to touch and feel and be in the moment.

Andy slid her hands up the outside of Miranda's thighs to grip her waist and pull her closer. She pushed the undoubtedly expensive skirt up not caring if it wrinkled or tore. Feeling Miranda's tongue lick at her lips made the journalist's brain short circuit. She opened her mouth to allow the editor entrance. Twin groans sounded in the room at the first touch of tongues.

The kisses were wet, heated and incendiary; being both the kerosene and match for their desire. The need for oxygen was the only thing that pulled them apart. Her lips free for a moment, Andy took the opportunity to kiss across Miranda's jaw and down her neck to the very sensitive spot she had found earlier when she still thought she was dreaming. The editor trembled, her center pulsing, at the attention the brunette was lavishing on her neck.

"Andrea," slipped as a litany from Miranda's lips, her hands balled in fists in the brunette's hair as she pressed the journalist's mouth harder against her skin. Small moans and whimpers filled the air. The sounds made Andy's blood burn and her center flood with wetness. Lost in a haze of arousal, Andy raised her hands to the collar of Miranda's shirt and, without thinking, pulled the shirt apart tearing through the buttons and revealing creamy white skin and beautiful breasts encased in black lace. The brunette's mouth watered. She ignored the tiny, niggling thought that the shirt she tore probably cost more than she made in two weeks, but looking at the sight before her she knew it was well worth it if she had to pay it. Flicking the front closure of the bra open as if she had practice undressing women, Andy immediately enveloped an already taut nipple with her lips and pinched the other with her hand. _We can do slow and gentle next time_, Andy thought.

Miranda moaned low and long at the feel of the journalist lapping at her nipples, hardening them to almost painful tightness. Needing more, the editor arched into Andy's mouth groaning and panting, her wings encircling them and pressing the brunette closer to her. The brunette's right hand traced down Miranda's waist and pelvis to the editor's pulsing core without preamble. Her left hand circled the editor's waist and brought her closer to the edge of the desk.

Using her thighs to open Miranda's knees further, Andy allowed her fingers to trace the editor over her very wet panties. Blue eyes snapped shut at the sensation. Air seemed to be in limited supply for the editor who gulped at it as if drowning. The journalist moved the flimsy material under her fingers and traced the editor's hot, wet slit. The fire in her blood burned through her inexperience and nervousness. Andy found Miranda's entrance and plunged in with two fingers. She groaned into Miranda's breast at the feel of velvety flesh enveloping her fingers. Apparently being too slow for the older woman's liking, the editor was already moving against her fingers setting the pace hard and fast; Andy accommodated her. The brunette's thumb found the editor's clit, and she pressed it incessantly, guaranteeing the experience would be short and explosive.

Miranda pulled Andy up to her lips, kissing her urgently. The brunette could feel the tightening of muscles around her fingers. She pushed in deeper, eager to see the editor fall apart in her arms. Her fingers accidentally encountered a rough patch of tissue on their outward swipe that made Miranda's breath hitch and stutter. Twisting and pushing her fingers deeper, she tried to find it again. _There_, she thought triumphantly as she pressed her fingers repeatedly against the tissue inside the editor. Miranda clenched hard around her fingers, her climax was quiet despite all the noise she was making before. Her body arched tightly while her arms, legs and wings held the brunette firmly against her.

Andy peppered Miranda's face with kisses as the editor came down from her orgasm. Then something as miraculous as the existence of angels happened between them. The journalist would later call it reverse empathetic sensitivity; but at the moment it seemed like a religious experience. A surge of pure, undiluted emotion hit Andy square in the chest. She gasped at its intensity; it left her breathless. She felt, momentarily, what Miranda felt for her. It was endless; it had no measurable breadth, depth, length or height. It was utterly beautiful. Tears slid down Andy's face, so overwhelming was the feeling washing over her.

"That is what flows through me for you with every beat of my heart," Miranda kissed her gently, unhurried but intense and burning. She slid off the desk without releasing Andy's lips. Her hands made quick work of unzipping the journalist's pants. Andy's knees buckled at the feel of Miranda's fingers moving into her jeans, under her drenched panties, through her very wet folds. The editor's wings supported the brunette, while one hand rubbed breasts and the other moved into Andy.

The journalist gasped as fingers slid in and out of her. She clumsily slid her fingers through Miranda's white mane and pulled her into a desperate kiss. Andy knew she would not last long, she was already running high off of seeing the editor orgasm and the feeling of euphoria that was still gripping her heart. Grinding down on Miranda's fingers, she felt the editor's palm press against her clit. Sparks of light were already exploding behind her eyelids. Pressing her forehead to Miranda's as she rode her hand, Andy could not help uttering the words that were on the tip of her tongue. "Miranda," she gasped for breath, "I love you." The last word of her confession came out as a keening cry as her world exploded.

Andy came down to Miranda murmuring endearments and peppering her face with butterfly kisses. As soon as she was able to move again, the brunette enveloped the editor in a tight hug. They just held each other for long minutes, not wanting to let the other go. "I should be dead right now," Andy spoke into the quiet room, "but here I am in your home, in your arms." She pulled back to look into sky blue eyes, she stared in wonder. "How did this happen?"

"We still have many things to discuss," Miranda said disentangling them and taking Andy's hand in her own. She led them out of the office and up the stairs without actually starting any sort of conversation.

"Shouldn't we finish our discussion, or start it," Andy asked not really wanting to talk at all but needing the reassurance they would finish the conversation somewhere along the line.

"We can finish that later," Miranda tugged the brunette through the threshold of her bedroom, "when we are well sated."

"No self-control," Andy laughed, eagerly following.

"I'm an angel," Miranda turned smiling eyes to the journalist, "not a saint."


	2. Chapter 2

Andy's whole body tensed as her world exploded. Her back arched off the bed, hands tightly gripping the silvery white head keeping Miranda's mouth on her center as she rode out her orgasm. Completely sated, deliriously happy and utterly exhausted she crumpled onto the mattress like a ragdoll, her harsh panting the only indicator she had not died. She felt absolutely spent; she did not have enough energy to even pull Miranda off of her.

Miranda, on the other hand, was trembling and nearly wild with aching need. She kissed the inside of Andy's thigh once more, pleased at the aftershocks still going through the young woman. Raising herself up on her hands and knees, Miranda crawled over Andy's prone body.

The journalist's head lolled forward, her brown eyes firmly fixed on the woman moving up her body. Her breathing was still harsh and her heart beat had not calmed, and it did not seem either was going to slow in the very near future. She licked dry lips at the predatory image Miranda radiated: nose, mouth and chin smeared and shining with Andy's juices as if she had just killed and eaten a very satisfying meal; the deep blue of her iris just a thin ring around her dilated pupil making her look slightly drunk; her hair plastered gray with sweat against her neck and forehead and disheveled where Andy had frantically held on to making her look wild; the slightly open mouth as if the editor was breathing the journalist in and readying to pounce on her; the wings that had popped out from where Miranda had hid them as she gracefully moved over the journalist. Miranda looked like a mythical tigress come to devour her whole.

Andy shuddered when Miranda stopped, knees on either side of the journalist's abdomen, and lowered herself slowly onto her stomach. The hot wetness that immediately spread over her skin made the journalist gasp; the editor felt like she would melt a hole through her. Miranda's hands anchored onto Andy's suddenly very at attention breasts as the editor began to rock herself against the young woman- pelvis to ribs and back again- spreading her arousal all over Andy's stomach. The journalist hissed at the heady feel of it all.

"Andrea," Miranda's voice hitched as her wings opened slightly with the rocking of her hips. Andy's exhaustion made her limbs feel leaden, but the near desperation in the editor's voice spurred the journalist to tap into the reserves of her energy. She placed her hands on Miranda's knees and slid them up to rest on the editor's waist, her thumbs rubbing on the protruding pelvic bone making Miranda twitch and moan. The frantic rocking of hips slowed, but did not stop, as hazy blue eyes locked with brown. The look melted Andy's insides.

Still holding Miranda's waist, Andy moved her right hand between the editor's legs clumsily. Her fingers slid through Miranda's wetness gracelessly, but finesse was not necessary. The editor's eyes slammed shut and her pearly white teeth bit on her bottom lip to keep from crying out at Andy's touch. The journalist summoned the energy to part Miranda's folds and insert two fingers into the editor.

Miranda's hands squeezed the breasts in her hands as she immediately slid up and down the length of the fingers inside her. Andy swallowed at the sight and feel of the editor already tightening around her, she watched Miranda ride herself to oblivion. One thrust, two, three. Miranda came down a fourth time and ground herself into Andy's palm. The journalist could feel the hard point of the editor's clit on the heel of her hand and pressed up into it, her fingers slipping deeper into the clenching velvet walls. Miranda' whole body tensed; her back arched straining the muscles in her abdomen into sharp relief, her breasts and nipples proudly erect along the curve of her chest, her white head was thrown back, mouth opened in silent scream, and her wings unfurled so quickly they snapped the air like a whip.

Andy's breath caught at the sight. Miranda looked absolutely glorious in rapture. The editor, back bowed, eyes closed, mouth open, wings spread, seemed to glow; she was emanating light. The journalist watched the editor transfixed.

Miranda's arms collapsed as her strength fled in the wake of her release. Her wings slowed her descent so when she fell on top of a still prone Andy it was with gentle pressure. The wings disappeared as the journalist's arms encircled Miranda. The editor's harsh breathing evened out with Andy's, and the duo laid wrapped in each other, exhaustion pulling them quickly to slumber.

"I make you glow," Andy mumbled adjusting the editor into the most comfortable position above her. Miranda could hear the smugness in Andy's slurred voice even though the journalist was already more than half asleep. The editor would have retorted with a snide remark if the hands rubbing obscenely comforting circles on her back had not been lulling her to sleep. Instead she grunted (unintelligibly) _sleep now_ against Andy's collar bone before promptly succumbing to the pull of slumber.

* * *

Andy woke to the feel of someone watching her. Blinking her eyes open, she smiled widely at the feel of Miranda's hand brushing errant locks out of her face. Andy drank in the sight of the editor. She let her eyes linger over the expertly manicured eyebrows, the imperfect nose that served to increase Miranda's appeal, the soft and perfectly kissable lips, the elegant cheek bones, the intense cobalt eyes. The journalist stared into the ocean blue of Miranda's eyes and her heart expanded inside her chest. It felt like a pot of warm honey had been tipped over in her soul; the slow, sweet essence of love spreading across her being.

Andy had staunched the overwhelming emotion before in an effort of self preservation; but now she let herself embrace and revel in it. Blue eyes softened, the journalist blushed a little at how obvious her feelings were to the editor. "You glow," Andy blurted, excitement evident in her voice as she remembered Miranda wings wide, head thrown back, bathed in light. She pulled the editor flush against her, placing a soft kiss on even softer lips just because she could. It was impossible to ignore the rush of heat the skin on skin touch caused, but Andy luxuriated in the altogether different warmth enveloping her heart at simply _being_ with Miranda.

"Quite proud of yourself, aren't you?" The editor asked in a dry tone.

"Yes," the journalist giggled, happiness bubbling up inside her and spilling over.

"You glow all the time," Miranda offered off handedly, "It's one of the first things I noticed about you. It made you different from anyone I had ever encountered." Blue eyes watched Andy with hawk like intensity. "When you smile, the brightness you exude rivals the sun." Almost in reflex, Andy smiled. Miranda blinked, "That's why sunglasses were always on hand."

The journalist laughed, "You're kidding." The editor watched Andy in serious and brooding awe. It sobered the young woman. Dark eyebrows furrowed over curious brown orbs. Questions popped to the forefront of her mind; there was so much she wanted to know.

"In my pettiest moment," Miranda's voice was low, shamed, "I wanted to crush that light. To put out the thing that made you shine. And, several times, when I was especially cruel, it dimmed. But, it never died; it never went out. Only once did I think it would peter out and die."

"When?" The smile faded from Andy's face as she felt the mood dampen.

"In Paris. On the way to the final party of Fashion Week," Miranda's voice sounded strained, as if even recalling the moment was painful, "you sat quietly next to me after I had offered you everything, and your light just decreased until it was only a faint glow centered above your heart. I stepped out of the car before I could witness it extinguish. When I turned back around, you were walking away," Andy's heart squeezed painfully as she recalled the moment perfectly, "but your light was growing until it engulfed you and I had to turn away or be blinded by it."

Miranda shifted out of Andy's embrace unable to bear the direct press of the journalist's emotions against her psyche. She sat on the edge of the bed, her feet hitting the soft, carpeted floor. Andy sighed behind her.

"Why do you run away?" Andy asked flopping onto her back, exasperated. "You said you could feel me regardless if we're touching or not. I'd much rather be touching."

Miranda sighed. "I can feel you even with space between us," the editor gazed off into nothing, "But touching you makes everything sharper, clearer, more vivid."

"We are going to disagree, Miranda," Andy moved to press her hand against Miranda's tense back, "I am going to feel a lot of things. But that doesn't mean I don't want you near. You can't distance yourself just because you don't like what I'm feeling at a particular moment."

"You don't understand," now the editor sounded petulant, "you color my perception. When I tell you something awful I did, your first reaction isn't to be repulsed, but it's to forgive me. It's mercy," the word was acid leaving Miranda's tongue, "which I don't deserve."

"Why are you so hard on yourself?" Andy sat up and rested her chin on an alabaster shoulder.

"I never was until you," Miranda accused, feeling vulnerable and off kilter, "I am more than awful when reflected in your light. And, I never realized just how awful, until I looked at myself through your doe brown eyes that see the world in black and white, though you understand shades of gray, and you still retain a sense of innocence." The editor gently disengaged herself from the journalist and stood moving a few paces forward. "You see good and beauty in even the vilest creatures."

Her back to Andy, Miranda laughed mirthlessly. The sound bounced off the walls of the quiet room. "This is my real punishment, isn't it?" The editor yelled up at the ceiling, suddenly incensed. Andy watched in morbid fascination; she had never heard Miranda raise her voice. "To find something precious and be utterly unworthy of it."

Andy moved quickly off the bed to embrace the distraught woman. Miranda was quickly unraveling any preconceived ideas the journalist may have had about anything concerning the fashion icon. She moved them a few feet and lowered them to the nearest couch and simply held the editor.

"I wasn't supposed to save you," Miranda confessed, comforted in the arms of the young woman. She felt off balance. Feeling everything flowing from the journalist was making her lose control. It was freighting and freeing in an odd way. "I was to have no more to do with you, ever." Blue eyes closed as she remembered the direct order. "You had passed the test. You had survived your tenure with the Dragon Lady with your soul intact. I was to never bother you again."

Andy did not understand. "Why? To what purpose is this test?"

"I am not supplied with the why," Miranda's voice was tight, concealing something, Andy let it go for the moment, "I am only compelled to be the furnace through which you pass your trial by fire."

"How many have there been?" Andy asked, unsure she wanted to know the answer.

"Countless," came the short answer, "Only you have passed."

"Okay," Andy swallowed, her head was spinning with too much she did not comprehend. "So if you weren't supposed to save me," she went back to a safer topic, "how did you know to save me?"

"You screamed for me," Miranda explained as best she could. "The moment you began to fall, your heart called to me. Everything disappeared around me. It was as if we were in a room together and you were frantically screaming for me from the far end." The white mane shook the memory away, "It drove me mad with worry. I knew if I didn't get to you something terrible would happen. I smashed through one of the windows in my office and flew to you. My heart listened for yours and I found you."

Something clicked in Andy's head, "How long have you loved me?"

"Since the first moment you disagreed with me," blue eyes looked up into widening brown eyes.

"I disagreed with you one minute into my interview for the job as your assistant," Andy was incredulous.

"Yes," the editor confirmed.

Andy's heart tripped in her chest at the dawning of realization. "Oh," her head shook faintly, "Then, why?"

Miranda closed her eyes as she heard all the question the journalist was not asking: _Why the cruelty? Why the barbs? Why the impossible tasks?_ Opening her eyes and looking at Andy she knew honesty was the only way through, "I loved you, but, I didn't want to. It was unexpected and debilitating. I don't do well with things that make me feel vulnerable."

"You have a gift for understatement," Andy mumbled to herself.

"Mockery," apparently Miranda had exceptional hearing, "how very mature."

Andy just barely withheld the urge to stick her tongue out at the editor. Instead she dropped a kiss onto a white mane, "I think we need a break." She needed a moment to digest all the information, and to mentally prepare for what was sure to be more of the same.

Andy felt her stomach sticking to Miranda's back and her nose picked up the faint but unmistakable smell of sex. She felt her neurons come alive at the vivid memories of the several hours they had spent putting that smell in the room. "And maybe we should get cleaned up, too," the comment came out more breathless than she intended. Miranda craning her neck back and giving her a heated stare did not help matters much.

When they finally made it to the bathroom, Andy marveled at the immensity of the shower. It easily fit half a dozen people, and then some. It was tiled black floor to ceiling with soft light that made the space inviting and not dark. A floor to ceiling glass door enclosed the stall. Inset on the ceiling of the stall were several shower faucets that rained down into the shower imitating rainfall, or the feeling of being under a waterfall. It was magnificent. "I think I'm in love with your shower," the journalist quickly entered and fiddled with the knobs until she got the right temperature and pressure.

Face upturned to the water, eyes closed, Andy felt hands slide across her abdomen as a body fitted itself to her back. Miranda laid lazy, open mouthed kisses along the back of her neck and shoulder as her hands diverged. One hand travelled up while the other travelled down.

The shower filled with steam, the sound of falling water, and distinctive moans of pleasure. The simple act of cleaning themselves took the women much longer than was usual for either of them.

* * *

Unable to help herself, after enjoying the show the editor put on while drying herself, the journalist pressed the silver haired woman to the counter their naked bodies touching everywhere. "Are we well sated now?" Andy kissed Miranda, tongue plunging into a warm mouth and ravaging their already heightened senses.

"You're a hunger I can never hope to sate," the editor expelled breathlessly before recapturing full lips. She kissed Andy desperately, as if they would never share another kiss, another moment.

The hunger, the desperation to be with and in Miranda, Andy understood. The confusion and roiling emotions that accompanied such open revelation by the editor could wait a little while longer. Right at that moment, the only thing that mattered was seeing Miranda come undone.

Sometime later, preceded by another much more efficient shower, the women stumbled out into the spacious room. "Should I get going?" Andy asked looking for her discarded underwear.

Miranda stared at the clock on her bedside with furrowed brows, not answering Andy's query. She walked to the balcony doors and pushed the curtains aside. Andy waited for some sort of response. "I don't believe that will be necessary," Miranda finally replied moving to her walk in closet.

"Won't the girls be home soon?" Andy raised her voice so Miranda could hear the question in the adjoining closet. Anxiety twisted her stomach unpleasantly. She most definitely did not want to officially meet the twins after marathon sex with their mother. She absentmindedly picked up her discarded clothing, clutching them like a safety blanket, while her mind whirled. _Maybe dinner later this week when I've had some time to sort things out_, Andy thought staring off into nothing, _Or maybe next week, once I've practiced not picturing Miranda naked every few seconds, or the look she gets when she comes, or the feel and taste of her._ She licked her lips, heat crawling up her chest and neck. Andy groaned internally, _I think she's turned me into a sex fiend. It's like I can't get enough of her._

"No," the voice in front of her startled Andy so bad she dropped the clothes she was holding. The slightly raised eyebrows, darkening eyes, and insistent smirk pulling at Miranda's lips clued the journalist in to the fact that the editor knew where her thoughts had gone. "One track mind," the words sounded half amused and half loaded with anticipation. Andy could feel heat crawl up her face as she bent over to pick up the clothes.

"Rarely, if ever," standing, brown eyes raked over the now dressed editor, "except around you…" Andy's eyes took another sweep of Miranda as her voice faded. _Will wonders never cease? _Her mind seemed stuck. She catalogued the bare feet, the Levi's jeans that looked older than she was (well worn but in immaculate condition), the simple white oxford rolled up hazardously to the elbow, the make-up free face, and the gunmetal gray hair still damp from their shower. At that moment, her heart exploded a little in her chest. When she did not think she could possibly love the creature before her any more than she already did, the woman went and showed her a part of herself that she never showed anyone. And, it solidified something for Andy; it gave reality to their extraordinary circumstances. "Have I ever told you how absolutely beautiful you are?" Andy asked unconsciously as she took in the vision before her.

Miranda blushed lightly, pleasure suffusing her whole. The words were themselves she had heard countless times said in countless ways, but what made the editor's heart expand in her chest was the sincerity in Andy's voice, the spark in her eyes, and the light that was glowing brighter the longer she looked at her. The journalist was not simply saying the words, she meant them. Andy did not say the words in placating pleasantry, jealous disdain, or grudging acceptance, but in genuine realization. And standing, in her most common, pedestrian clothes (albeit comfortable), Miranda felt like the most beautiful creature to ever walk the earth because that was how Andy was seeing her. Clearing her throat, she offered what she was carrying, "Put these on. They are clean and comfortable."

Andy set her clothes aside and accepted Miranda's offering without a word. Figuring modesty was unnecessary after everything they had done to each other the past few hours, she dropped the robe and began dressing in front of a very interested editor. The sharp intake of breath, when the robe pooled around Andy's feet and she bent to put on the lacy panties Miranda gave her, caused a smirk to spread her full lips. "One track mind," Andy slipped into the white linen pants.

"You seem to," Miranda lost her train of thought as the journalist stretched to slip the on simple white cotton shirt sans bra, "have that affect on me."

Andy closed the distance between them, loving the fact that barefoot she stood two inches above the editor. Slipping her hands under the untucked oxford, the journalist's fingers grasped two belt loops and she tugged the editor to her. "I'm glad I'm not the only one," she whispered against lips that had surged up to meet her own. "Unless," she pulled back suddenly her mind running over itself, "I make you feel that way, because I feel so strongly that way. I mean I don't want the whole I-feel-what-you-feel thing to be the reason…" Miranda kissed her quiet.

"I've wanted you longer than you've wanted me," the editor appeased.

"Really?" Andy rolled her eyes at herself. "I mean good. I mean okay. I mean," Andy shook her head and took a deep breath, pulling back slightly, "what is this about the girls not being here soon?"

Miranda sobered immediately at the question, "Time has stopped."

* * *

The coffee maker percolated a strong brew.

The scent of coffee filled the kitchen.

Andy stared at the screen of her phone. She was still only fifteen minutes late to her appointment from hours ago. The journalist had checked every clock in the house. All read the same time, and no matter how long she stared at them they did not move forward.

Her head dropped to the counter top. She concentrated on the constant drip of the coffee falling into the pot. She had called everyone she could think would answer only to have the phone ring endlessly. Andy even went so far as to ask Miranda to fly them out to inspect the city. She should have known the situation was dire when the editor took them up without changing out of her Levi's, white oxford, and bare feet. The city literally stood still. Cars and people frozen at every intersection in the city waiting for time to resume to get on with their morning.

Miranda had even taken her to the exact spot where she had plucked her out of the sky. The glass had not even hit the floor yet, it was frozen thirty feet above the pavement. It was surreal. The only thing bouncing around in a loop through her head the whole ride had been Miranda's words: _I wasn't supposed to save you_. The flight back had been swift and quiet.

The journalist tried to ignore the panic trying to seize her chest. She felt crazy. Her emotions running high one second and low the next. She felt like she was on a rollercoaster ride from hell.

She had left Miranda in the den with the excuse of bringing them much needed caffeine. The editor had nodded but not turned from the window where her eyes stared at the stationary sun illuminating the eastern horizon. It stood frozen on its upward zenith, like a painting of the New York City skyline at morning.

Andy was trying to not freak out, but was finding the task a bit impossible considering the circumstances. She let the coolness of the granite under her cheek seep into her, and tried to calm her inner turmoil. The editor was reluctant in sharing her history, but once started she was forthcoming with details that the young woman wished she had withheld.

Hypnotized by the drip and splash of each drop of coffee, the journalist's mind replayed the conversation she and Miranda were having before she fled the den.

"_A little more than a decade ago, I was visited by a messenger and given a directive," Miranda started as if forced, "I was given a measure of power to go about the job given. Wings, empathy, healing, some strength, all things I did not want nor need. All to go with a job I refused to do. That is, until my first charge. The pleasure I took in breaking her, in crushing her, was addicting. From that moment on, I enjoyed the heady rush of destroying the human will."_

_Andy shuddered at the smirk that spread Miranda's lips. But she did not interrupt, she listened._

"_I was never a tactile person, but after some of my former traits reasserted themselves, I was even less so," the editor continued. "It was counterproductive to insult someone only to touch them and feel remorse at the necessary action." Miranda looked pensive, "I suppose refraining from touching people made me even more fearful and unapproachable. I can't say I mind that side benefit."_

_Andy tamped down the desire to inject judgment or comment, she instead only supplied questions. "You said you fell to the temptation of great power fifty years ago," the journalist probed, "but I don't recall any great event in history happening during that time period."_

"_That's because I failed to attain the power I was seeking," Miranda said in a flat voice, face averted, "History would tell a different story otherwise."_

_Andy believed the statement wholeheartedly. If Miranda was a force to be reckoned with being only human, she could not imagine the force she was with real power._

"_World War Two was simply a reflection of the celestial Great War," Andy tried to make sense of the off tangent statement, but Miranda did not give her opportunity to question the statement. "The visible realm has a tendency to move to the ebb and flow of the invisible, so when jarring conflict is taking place in the latter the former inevitably moves in the direction of war. At the onset of this realm's war, the camps for my realm's war were well defined: Light, Dark, and Shadow."_

"_There were three sides?" Andy interjected, the reporter in her seeking out the details._

_Miranda shook her head, "Not in combat. Shadow agents originally set out to gather information for the Light. And, before long, they were the agents sent out to balance the scales in the mortal realm."_

"_You were one of these Shadow agents, I take it," the reporter stated._

_The silver head bobbed. "I was tasked with conserving as much human life as possible. A simple task had I been allowed to actively use my power to save them. But Death would not be robbed of so many souls. So, a compromise was reached. I could only save lives through humanity itself. That was a much harder task, given human motivation and compassion." Miranda sighed heavily, a weight seeming to pull on her shoulders. "It finally came down to numbers. Sacrifice one million here for ten million there. The few died for the man, and I fulfilled my task."_

_Andy was horrified at the inhumanity of it all. Life and death came down to mathematics. She felt sick. Miranda physically withdrew from her. The journalist took a deep breath, trying to control her reactions. She knew it was not Miranda's fault; the woman did not need her shock on top of the guilt she so obviously felt._

"_But," Miranda stared out the window and back ramrod straight, "I was getting the information to influence human decisions from a source that took pleasure in genocide. So, I was sacrificing few from particular ethnic groups for the many of diverse groups."_

"_You mean the Jews," Andy whispered._

"_And the Romani," Miranda confirmed, voice emotionless, "among very few others."_

_Andy opened her mouth to say something, anything, but she had no words._

"_After the Great War had ended, and subsequently World War Two, I was left reeling with not only the blood of so many innocents on my hands but also the near annihilation of their lineages and cultures." Miranda would not turn to meet Andy's eyes, her posture was stiff as if readying to ward off attack. "I weakened the human race by taking away cultures and diversity inherent in distinctive groups of people. But, I fulfilled my duty. I did my job. And the slight oversight on my part was overlooked." Miranda did not sound as if that made her happy at all. "In an effort to make amends, I began seeking enough power to remedy so much death by helping those left regroup, rebuild and restart. I was enticed by a dissenter that promised power enough to atone for the souls on my charge."_

"_That was the right thing to do," Andy agreed, even though it mattered little in the grand scheme of things._

"_Not according to the powers that be," Mirada's voice was laced with fire, showing the first real sign of the emotion weighing down on her, "I could commit genocide on behalf of a war not even of your own making, but it was treason to ally myself to someone of the Dark to rebalance scales I had tipped."_

"_How is that treason?" The journalist did not see the betrayal. "You weren't going to use the power against your side."_

_Silence met Anyd's statement. Miranda did not refute it or defend herself, "It was the only way. The source of power was intentionally hidden from me by my fellow comrades. I had apparently become a liability to the stability of the Light. When I made a play to attain the power, I was found out and succinctly crushed."_

"_You made one mistake, and for a noble cause," Andy protested, unbelieving at the rigidity of whatever system Miranda was subject to, "couldn't they have forgiven you one error?"_

"_No," Miranda's answer was vehement, "we are afforded no such luxury. There is no mercy, no forgiveness, and no redemption for an angel. That is a privilege afforded only to the human race. And, you squander it like it is dross."_

"_You're human now, Miranda," Andy pointed out, trying to wrap her mind around everything, "And you are the most unbending person I know. You expect perfection from everyone, and afford no one the luxury of mistakes. You are human with the capacity for mercy but without an ounce of it." Andy paused as she considered the editor, aching sadness gripping her chest, "But, I think, I can finally understand why you're that way."_

"_I am not," Miranda's answer was emphatic, but Andy was not sure was she was denying. "I am human in body, yes. And, unfortunately, in emotion as well. But, not in ideology. I am burdened with the memories of a past I cannot break free from. I show no mercy because none has ever been shown to me. I do not know how to give it. You have no idea what a burden it is to bear the weight of so many souls on a human conscious. While I was an angel I felt remorse, but it was under the guise of duty. I felt little but the need to help those left behind; I had only done my job, after all." Eyes almost violet in shade finally turned to her. "But, in this mortal coil, I feel agonizing guilt over every single person that died because I was just doing my job." Miranda struggled with herself, "Don't you see? I haven't ever learned to be merciful and forgiving, so my capacity for it is meaningless." Her gaze suddenly bored into Andy. "Until you. I treated you worse than I've treated everyone else, simply because you made me feel _more_. And yet, you continually forgave me and came back for more. You afford me mercy and dole out forgiveness freely. I am more the monster in your light." Blue eyes flashed as they fixed firmly on brown, "Why do you stay now but not in Paris?"_

"_I stay because I love you Miranda," Andy did not hesitate, though she was not sure at all when the conversation had turned back to the two of them specifically. The world was not making any sense, so why would Miranda who did not make sense even when the world did. She sighed heavily. "It killed me to leave you in Paris. Some part of me died that day. But, I couldn't stay. I couldn't be what you wanted. It would have destroyed me. I can never be that, not then and not now. That doesn't mean, though, that I don't love you. I want to be with you and part of your life. But, I need it to be on my own terms."_

A sharp beeping pulled Andy from her thoughts. The coffee was ready. She lifted her head from the granite and moved mechanically to acquire cups and pour them generous portions of coffee. She took a deep breath and let the scent of something familiar soothe her nerves.

Setting her face in determination, Andy picked up the cups and walked back to the den.

* * *

Miranda had vacated her spot by the window and now sat, head laid back and eyes closed, against a large, brown, leather couch placed in front of an empty fireplace.

Andy sat next to the editor gently, thigh to thigh, careful not to spill the coffee. She was calmer now, a little more in control of her emotions. The editor shifted forward and graciously accepted the steaming cup.

"I was born into an impoverished Romani family in eastern Europe," Miranda began without any prompting, "Romania, I believe. Though, I never took the time to trace my family line." That made Andy sad for an inexplicable reason. "I was orphaned by some misfortune or other, and raised by the community," Miranda said without inflection as if talking about the weather, or something of equal inconsequence, "We are a very insular group of people and generally outcast everywhere. We wonder without a home. Nomadic by nature or by curse, I have put little thought into it."

"For a gypsy you seem quite settled," Andy was not sure what to do with the information Miranda was providing. It broke her heart that the woman had grown up without real family, or means to any good future she did not provide herself.

"Hardly," Miranda tried to ignore the sympathy flowing from the young woman, "I travel constantly. I stay in no place long enough to form any attachment to it."

"What about New York?" Andy wondered aloud, "_Runway_?"

"Tethers. Nothing more," the editor dismissed.

"But you haven't left the city since Paris," the journalist said before she could stop herself, "Something is keeping you here."

Sharp blue eyes narrowed. Andy shrugged and gave the editor a half smile. "Home is where the heart is, or some such nonsense."

The young woman could clearly hear what the Miranda was not saying. "You stay because of me," it was not a question. Andy set their cups aside and enveloped the editor in her arms; still unsure of so much, but certain about this thing between them.

Miranda rested her head on a strong shoulder and tried to relax. "I find it impossible to be too far from you," blue eyes closed.

Andy rested her cheek against the silver head, "What do we do?"

"We wait," Miranda said, seething at her helplessness, her powerlessness.

"I thought we had free will and all that jazz, no meddling or interfering," Andy said, fear creeping up her spine.

"You do," Miranda moved to look at the young woman, "I am bound to do the will of my Master."

It was odd to think of Miranda at the behest of anyone but herself. Andy could see how it grated the editor to be collared. "You're human, too, Miranda," Andy was adamant, feeling indignant on the editor's behalf, "that means you have free will."

"More than most of my kind," the editor smiled sadly at the journalist as she stood to pace; restless energy pumped through her, "I lost my free will when I let you walk away in Paris."

"You made it impossible for me to stay," Andy tried to defend herself again, Paris was a sticking point for them, "You gave me an ultimatum that I couldn't agree to and still be me."

"I know," Miranda nodded remembering, "You would have stayed otherwise."

"You wanted me to leave?" Andy head was spinning again, and not in any pleasant way.

"Yes," Miranda said evenly, "I couldn't trade your free will for my own. I loved you too much. But, I also wanted you to stay more than I ever wanted anything in my entire life."

"Miranda, I don't understand," Andy stood pulling the editor to a stop. She raised her hands to cup the editor's face between her palms. "Please, help me understand," she pleaded.

The editor sighed in defeat. "I was told you were coming. You, they said, were different. You had the potential to replace me. All I had to do was make you stay, and I would be freed. I was expecting you when you arrived in my office with your righteousness and innocence. I was ready to tear you down piece by piece and rebuild you to be me."

"Do you really think you would be different if you weren't burdened with the memories of who you used to be?" Andy asked truly curious, not judging Miranda's desire to be free of the burden she carried. "Your life won't be different. You would still have lived the same life, only with the memories of before gone."

"Perhaps, I would be the same. Perhaps not," Miranda's voice was her usual soft whisper, "I would like the opportunity of the freedom to choose. But not at your cost. It is strange that the first time I feel my humanity assert itself, it does not do so in my own interest, but in the interest of another. It makes me think there is perhaps some honor and nobility in our race."

"Love is a great equalizer," Andy wrapped her arms around thin shoulders, feeling arms snake around her waist. The two women held each other tightly. "What do you think is going to happen?"

"Most likely, we will be returned to a moment of an important decision for both of us," Miranda spoke into the crook of Andy's neck, "A moment that defined who we are. Your memory of anything that's happened up to this point will disappear quickly; my memory will be wiped completely."

"I refuse to believe that's the only way out of this," Andy squeezed the editor tighter, "I don't want to lose this. I don't want to lose you."

"It's not a question of belief. We have very limited power, there's not much fight we can put up," Miranda felt tears seep through her shirt, "But nothing in any world is more powerful than love. Nothing. That cannot be lost or taken away. It exists above any power in the universe."

"Why can't it save us now?" Andy's voice shook.

"Perhaps it can," Miranda's voice sounded far away and the journalist's vision blurred at the edges before darkening completely. She felt like she was fading away into nothingness. _Never forget how much I love you, Andrea._

* * *

Andy gasped, the world solidifying around her. She was seated in the back of a car. Her wide brown eyes tried to register where and when exactly she was. Everything was fuzzy in her mind; there was something she needed to remember to do, but she could not quite recall what it was. She turned to the familiar presence beside her. Miranda's hand was lifted but paused in midair as if unsure if she should offer some sort of comfort to the obviously agitated young woman beside her. Lips thinning into a displeased line, the editor fisted her hand and dropped it to the space between them.

Andy swallowed roughly as she studied Miranda. Her eyes flitted momentarily to the view outside the editor's window. Paris. Andy was back in Paris. In the back of a black Mercedes with Miranda elegantly outfitted in the black ensemble she wore when she offered the young woman the world on a silver platter. It felt like déjà vu, but the sensation was fading quickly as if only an imagined memory. The car slowed as it transitioned out of traffic. Flashes of light from the waiting paparazzi jolted Andy out of her surprised stupor. She realized she could correct their course at this very juncture. Andy could change their future. She was not exactly what future she was saving them from, but she felt an insistent tug in her heart that she needed to do something and fast.

"Take another loop," the command in the assistant's voice was unquestionable. The car quietly slipped back into traffic. Miranda did not protest the order; she simply awaited the young woman's decision. Though an arched eyebrow communicated that the assistant better hurry and explain herself.

"Miranda," Andy waited until the editor turned to face her fully, "I'm quitting." The editor stiffened completely, lips pursing in displeasure, blue eyes piercing even through the sunglasses she was wearing. Andy could feel the laser intensity, and she felt a thrill of fear whisper through her. Taking a steadying breath, the assistant continued, "I don't want fame and fortune." Delicate nostrils flared, but otherwise the editor did not move. "I don't want you to think you can buy me or entice me into your world with _things_." Miranda's eyes narrowed and her jaw tensed. Andy knew she was inciting the wrath of La Priestly but she needed to say her piece. _Like I should have the first time around_, the errant thought bounced in her head but she could not place it, she had never been in this situation with the editor before. "I am not you, Miranda. We are similar in traits I admire in you, but we are not alike. And, I don't want to be like you," Andy could see blue eyes flash with hurt and insult through the tinted lenses.

"So, I'm quitting," the young woman moved her hand to envelop the fisted one Miranda had between them. Andy felt the editor pull away but she held firm. With her free hand, the young woman removed Miranda's sunglasses. The editor allowed the liberty. "But, I'm not leaving you," chocolate eyes held ice blue. Andy cupped an alabaster cheek, her heart fluttering as Miranda involuntarily leaned into the touch.

"If you love me," the assistant took an enormous leap of faith. Breath bated, Andy watched mesmerized as some great emotion flashed through the blue eyes before her. She stared fascinated as those eyes darkened from sky blue to ocean blue. The intensity directed her direction was palpable, she fell into the blue depths, "I'll stand by you. I'll stay for you. Just love me like I love you."

Andy closed the distance between them slowly, giving Miranda every opportunity to stop her if she so chose. The editor unfurled her fist, tangling her fingers with Andy's, before moving her free hand around the young woman's waist and meeting her half way. Warm, soft lips met and fused, and the world righted itself. Miranda clung to Andy, and Andy clung to Miranda.

And it did not matter that Andy was smearing painstakingly applied make-up, or that the driver was privy to their kiss, or that Miranda had to make an appearance at the final party of Paris Fashion Week. All that mattered was that Andy's lips tasted of salvation, and the love connecting the women offered redemption.

_**Fin**_


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